Seen Coming
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Oh yes, Sherlock had seen it coming. He can see through everything and everyone within seconds ... but he miscalculated the outcome. Alright, here I go again - I do not own either "Sherlock" or AC Doyle's mastermind detective. I admire their works, and I have a vivid imagination.
1. Miscalculation

Sherlock saw the shots coming. Had seen them coming all along. Of course, this was that kind of situation that forced you into reaction. Sherlock hated the game. _Chess_, _alright_. He saw some appeal in that! Anticipating his opponents' next move was something Sherlock excelled in. So certainly he had known John and himself would end up _here_. But he had not expected this _particular_ turn-up.

When he moved in front of John –and into the line of fire– he didn't think. John was on his mind. _Keep him safe_. He was risking an injured shoulder, back possibly, maybe leg, too. He could live with that. _Live_, _yes_. He didn't think he would die. He wouldn't. Just like John wouldn't. And then the bullet hit his back and a terrible white pain spread through his chest. He felt like drowning and grabbed John's arms to steady himself. He didn't see. The pain was overwhelming. He felt the blow to his back before he stumbled onto his friend. It wasn't forceful. A kick probably. It didn't hurt. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't feel his body anymore. He was so tired. So tired. And then he fell into darkness.


	2. Waking

The patient regained consciousness gradually over a couple of days. He half lay on his right side, arms neatly resting in front of his chest, in recovery position. He was dressed in a hospital gown to allow the tubes sticking out of his body some room.

When he came to, he felt a faint pain, dulled by heavy drugs, and moved his hands. He eyed the drip in his left one curiously. _Feeding tube_, he mused. So they were keeping him nourished. _Dull_. He shifted his gaze and spotted John, sleeping, his head resting on Sherlock's bed. The sight let a tiny smile flicker across the injured man's face. _John was her_e! He longed to touch the familiar face but drifted back into sleep before he could.


	3. John's Cue

The next time Sherlock wakes, John is gone and Sherlock briefly wonders if he had been dreaming him. But then the door in his back quietly opens and the detective hears John shuffle in. The doctor rounds the bed and places himself in a ghastly green chair, paper cup -coffee, Sherlock can tell- in hand. The younger man tries to keep his breathing even and croaks "John" at which the other man nearly drops his cup. He quickly recovers however and bends over Sherlock whose eyes will not stay open. He is glad that John is there. To keep Sherlock safe. He is unable to speak, his chest hurts, the breathing tube suddenly feels too big for his nostrils.

"Don't speak," John says and he nods while John presses the emergency button. And within what seems like seconds there are more hands touching him, trying to turn him, testing, probing, prodding, pricking his skin. Sherlock feels the sedative enter his system and knows he is too weak to fight it. His hand twitches towards John as he whispers his name, and he feels John's fingers brush his before the doctor actually takes his hand! Well, wraps two fingers around two of Sherlock's but anyway. Sherlock wants to smile but knows he can't. He feels the gown being pushed off his shoulders. Then a tube underneath his right shoulder blade is changed. His skin itches, and he doesn't like the hospital smell that suddenly is overwhelming. He feels naked, exposed, vulnerable, but John is there. His John. He is thoroughly checked and hears every comment. His condition is serious. He seems to have been out for a fortnight. John is factual, his remarks curt, but Sherlock can tell he's worried. A young female voice thinks he's cute. _He, Sherlock_! He'd give her a piece of his mind for the adjective, if he could. But she actually means it. She even repeats it and Sherlock hears the smile in her words, "He is. You're lucky". _Ah – there's John's cue_, Sherlock thinks and knows he'd hold his breath now, if he could. And John replies, "Yes, I suppose I am". If he could, Sherlock would gape or frown at his friend now. And spoil it. Just then he's glad he can't move or speak or do anything but fall asleep.


	4. Damaged

John sees.

He sees the pain in Sherlock's eyes, sees him wince and flinch at the touch, sees his lips twitch and shake. And although the detective doesn't utter a word (except "John" which the doctor decides not to count), John knows he's in pain. He sees the pleural drainage that helps clean out the punctured lung, sees the catheter bag, the long scar just above Sherlock's waist and knows what it means. He also knows there's a scar on Sherlock's left thigh where the third bullet had grazed his skin. John sees the struggle the pale body is fighting. And he knows that Sherlock is struggling because of _him. Because he saved _his_ life_. _Friends protect people. Who'd have thought_? 'John – we all know. He faked his bloody death for you. Just accept it,' Lestrade had jested not long ago. _Yes, Sherlock had faked his death_ and John had hated him for it. But two weeks ago, Sherlock had not faked anything. He would have given his life for John. He had risked so much. And he had suffered so much. _If he knew _- _God, when he learns_… John gulps and his grip on the thin fingers tightens as he feels sad, ashamed, happy, honoured, angry, all at once.


	5. Assessing the Damage

When Sherlock came to, a harsh white light blinded him. As his lashes fluttered angrily, he heard a muffled voice whisper his name over and over again. _Very eager_. He also felt a hand on his. _**In**__ his_. And he smiled. _I'm dead_, he thought, and, _this is not as bad as I thought_. _John_. _Must be John_. He had to _see_. Slowly he opened his eyes to the world to find his friend watching him with a frown. _His only friend_. He looked worried and Sherlock tried to deduce the reason why. John had not shaved. His hair was greasy, his shirt and collar rumpled as if he had slept in his clothes _for days_. He looked tired and worried. _Ah. Hospital. Of course_. That was it. John had been looking after him. Something not good had happened and he had got himself here. And John worried. But now he smiled. Sherlock smiled back and let his hand relax into the touch, "_Joh_-"

_Red_. This pain was red. He felt the fire burn his insides and numb his body. And he did not understand.

"Don't. _Speak_," John reasoned from somewhere far away. _Why not speak_? _What's the matter_?

"You got shot," the doctor gulped and bit his upper lip as he did when he was nervous, "You lost. A lung. Pleural effusion, ever heard of it? Your chest will feel sore for a while. That's the drainage. Your breathing when you speak is. Irregular. That's why it hurts. Nothing to worry about," biting his lower lip contradicted his words and Sherlock's curious eyes narrowed. He knew there was more. _There had to be more_. He felt the rubber tube in his nostrils that would not be there without a reason. His eyes moved from John to his own body. Apart from the drip, his hands looked alright. Sherlock drummed his long fingers in confirmation. _Nothing broken. Nothing torn_. He smiled at John who did not smile back.

John had noticed Sherlock's initial frown and bit his lower lip. He had seen the young man assess the damage. Of course, the violinist's gaze had caught his fingers first. He had not looked further, John realized. That was not like Sherlock at all. He _always_ saw things. He had not even _looked_ at his legs. So he _knew_, John thought. _He knew_. And John was not sure how he would cope. He knew his friend could take the pain the punctured lung gave him and he knew as well that he would accept the scars. But there was one thing, John was sure Sherlock would not be willing to accept.

"I got you a notepad. You just jot down whatever you want to communicate," John explained and giggled at Sherlock's nasty expression, "You know, if you insult us, we'll just ignore you. Pretend we can't read your writing," and after a pause he added, "Good to have you back, though. We were getting a bit anxious. It's been two weeks after all."

"Two," Sherlock gasped. _Ah. Here we go again. Stupid_. Sherlock closed his eyes and resolved to not speak again. _Ever_. But he held on to John's hand.


	6. Realization

The next time he woke, John was gone. Sherlock tried to suppress the aching feeling of loss. He felt _abandoned_. _Deserted. Lost. Stupid_. He fought his interior monologue and shifted his weight in the bed. He still felt incredibly _different_. _Lighter_. _Must have lost weight again_, he mused with a mischievous grin. John would not be pleased. He wiggled his feet and tried to push himself into a sitting position. And failed. The frown on his face deepening, Sherlock struggled with himself. His legs seemed to deny their service, so he heaved himself onto his weakened arms and sank into his pillows in an inelegant way. His back sent out a dull pain throbbing up his spine. _Just_ up, he thought. _Downwards_ he felt. _Nothing_. _Oh_.


	7. Past Recovery

John lowered the tea cups he had brought back from the cafeteria and sighed inaudibly. Sherlock looked at him in desperate horror. John _saw_ the questions in his eyes and it pained him to know that Sherlock could not ask them. He saw the panic and fear in the young face. _He_ definitely _knew_. _He had_ _figured it out_. _God, he looked so young_. So _fragile_.

"You were shot in the back twice," John said and put down the cups, "complete injuries at or below thoracic spinal level usually result in paraplegia. In _your_ case, two vertebrae are affected. T11 and T12. The second one's merely cracked; the first. Is totalled. Past recovery. Chances are. You won't regain use of your legs." John watched his friend carefully. Sherlock struggled bravely. He kept his head held high though his lips were trembling, the strained sulk expressing his inner turmoil. John knew Sherlock was fighting to hold back tears.

"Half an inch further down and you could have added incontinence to the list," John continued and saw the flicker of horrified amusement cross Sherlock's features, "_Anal_ incontinence, Sherlock. _No shit_." This drew a more visible smile from the patient, and John grinned back, "Not to mention sexual dysfunction." Sherlock sneered and half-turned his head to the bedside table. He fished for the notepad and pencil, John resisting to help him. _Sherlock was no invalid_. John beheld the drip they were feeding Sherlock through, the tube drainage, and the urinary catheter and could not help feeling sorry for the man. Sherlock was scribbling away in solemn concentration, and John fought the desire to hug him.


	8. A Lousy Friend

**The detective finally tore off a piece of paper and handed it to John.**

"_Why am I not dead?_

_I should be dead. So why am I not?_

_I'm useless._

_A useless cripple_."

**John shook his head, "You're not useless. You just can't control your legs for the time being. Maybe you _will_ again, though. Some day." Sherlock watched him doubtfully and handed him a second note.**

"_I want to kill myself._"

**"Don't see how you would manage," John smiled and shook his head, at which a pair of lucid blue eyes stared daggers at him, before Sherlock looked away, wrote and handed John another note.**

_"You could kill me. _

_Please, John._"

**"_Sorry_," John answered, "can't do that. There _were_ times when I would have jumped at that wish," John paused. He had wanted to say, "_I can't kill a cripple_," then thought better of it. _Bit n__ot good_, "Not now, though." He took the next note.**

"_I'll get Mycroft to do it_."

**John smiled, "Yes, I'm sure that's a good idea. Tell you what. Why don't you just lie on the couch texting me where to go and what to do? Wouldn't make much of a difference." Sherlock smiled and handed John another paper slip,**

"_How come you don't pity me? _

_You're a lousy doctor. And a lousy friend_."

**John pouted, "I'm doing my best to satisfy my patient's and friend's needs. The arrogant sod I know demonstrably hates pity, so I wouldn't show it even if I felt it. The annoying dick is a lousy friend himself. Except when he's getting shot for you. I fetched you tea. _Drink it_."**

**Sherlock gulped. He had noticed the change in tone. John's last sentence had sounded sad, hurt even, so Sherlock handed over his last note and buried his head in his hands.**

"_Thank you, John_."

**John smiled and folded the note. He put it in his pocket, leaving the others on the bedside table. Heaving a sigh, he stood up and turned to go. Sherlock watched in unspoken horror, tears blinding him. _John was leaving_. What had he done?**

**"I'm hungry," John lied, "Want anything? I'm sure we could feed you some tomato soup through there," he pointed at the drip, "Or try fish fingers. Won't be long. _Behave_!" ****Sherlock nodded. He understood. John was giving him a moment of privacy. He did not want it but he was grateful for the gesture. Staring at the closing door, he cried.**


	9. What do you see?

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the wall. Only last week had they offered to move him. _Again_. So that he might look out of the window. _Why on earth would I want to do that_?

"_Why_?" he croaked, and the nurse rounded the bed and bent down. _Emma_. He knew her.

"It might cheer you up," she smiled and nodded towards the window, "watching the other patients. You could deduce them."

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. When had watiching sick people crawl over gravel ever cheered anyone up? His shoulder hurt from constantly bearing his weight. Still, he wasn't able to turn on his other side, and he did not want anybody to help him.

"You could tell us all the things we missed," the nurse continued, and the detective closed his eyes.

"Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?"

"Fine," he managed.

"So what do you think? Shall I move you to the window then?"

"_**NO**_!"

The young woman stared at him in horror. He could read her face. _A nice face, actually. Rather plain, but interesting. _He sighed at her lack of comprehension. He could tell she was hurt at his rude reply. He could also tell that she was wondering what to do, considering moving him against his will. She was too afraid of his reaction, though. _Afraid of violent tempers. Afraid of rejection._ Sherlock watched her hands. She bit her nails. _Had done so for years_. She also kept fidgeting. _Nice girl. Of average intellect. Attractive_, as far as he could tell. _Unmarried, but in a relationship. An unfulfilling one though_. She kept working long hours, checking her phone every once in a while and answering texts. _So what was he_? _Student_? _Unemployed_? _Yes, someone who'd have lots of time to waste waiting and then jump into her face when she came home after a long day at work. Someone nasty though, cleverer than she was, to argue with her, blame her for his current position, and make her feel guilty_.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt ashamed of himself. She wasn't a bad person. She just didn't _understand_.

"I'll just come back later," she said in a low voice, and Sherlock gulped. She was walking away when he huskily pleaded her to wait. Then he fished for his paper and pencil.

"You should really have a look," she said, "Staring at the wall will do no good. I'm sure you'll like the change."

Sherlock held out a piece of paper to her, reading **WOULD I?**

"Of course you would! You've gone all pale and fragile already. You mustn't lock everybody out."

**I'VE ALWAYS BEEN PALE**, Sherlock wrote and she smiled at that. The detective offered a tiny smile in return. She wasn't sad anymore. _Good_.

**WHY WOULD I LIKE THE VIEW?**

"As I said, you can figure out the other patients," Emma walked to the window and looked outside. Then she looked at Sherlock's next note reading, **WHAT DO YOU SEE?**

"There's Old Mr. Simmons. And there's Tobey, the football kid. And I think that's Mrs. Parker with a friend of hers."

Sherlock sighed. _Of course, that was what she saw. But she didn't really_ **see**.

**DESCRIBE THEM**, he demanded.

"Describe them? Oh, Mrs. Parker is wearing her green jacket. The boy is playing with his football, giving it a good shove with one of his crutches. Mr. Simmons has been drinking. I can tell by the way he walks-" Emma broke off and stared at Sherlock in horror. He grinned at her and nodded approvingly.

"Is that why…you don't want to-" she closed the distance between them, "You mustn't give up. You _will_ walk again."

He shook his head almost unnoticeably.

"Won't you?"


	10. Burning his Heart out

It was the pain that woke him up. A dull throbbing had taken over, and Sherlock felt it pulse through his entire body. He blinked and took a deep breath. _Bad idea._ Immediately, a sharp pain spread out across his chest. "_Burn the heart out of you_," echoed his mind, and the detective tried to steady his breathing. The pain was hardly bearable. His neck felt stiff, and he was sure that his jaw was paralyzed. His head hurt, and his brain felt suddenly too big for his skull. _God, I'm dying_, he thought. It was eating him up. He forced his eyes shut and tried to drift away into his mind palace – to no avail. The pain was much too vivid to be ignored. _Damn_. And then there was the itching skin! Itching on the inside even. He had not felt this helpless since his darker days. Of course, he had had lots of bad trips then. Only this was not a trip. It was real. And it would not end. Groaning, Sherlock stretched out a limp hand toward the emergency button resting next to his pillow. He needed a nurse. He needed more painkillers.


	11. Dead

_Four weeks_, he mused and gulped. Chances were that his lung would recover completely within another month. If he rested_. I don't_ _really have a choice, have I_, Sherlock thought. He was bored. His body was growing weaker by the day, and he slept far more than he anticipated. John, who had initially come round every day and spent hours by his side, had taken up work again and would look in late, when Sherlock was asleep. Although the detective found it hard to admit, he missed his friend. He remembered waking, feeling John's hand around his. _The unfamiliar touch had been_ nice. Staff did not check on him all too often either anymore since he had started speaking again. Maybe he should not have said all of what he had…

Anyway, he was alone. _Again_. It was as if he had died.


	12. Unwanted

"We should have him here. With us, I mean," Mycroft sighed, and his wife gave him a look that spoke daggers.

"He's my _brother_," the older man reasoned, but the woman shook her head, "Have you forgotten the last time? After all that he's put us through, you still want him here?"

"He's family."

"Even though," she frowned, "he's a _disgrace_, Mycroft. He's an _addict_."

"He's _depressed_," Mycroft argued back, "He's a _cripple_."

"He's always been a cripple, that deranged little brother of yours, but you're just too kind. Too understanding. Allowing him to do all sorts of unwise things. Living with that _man_, too!"

"John Watson is the best that's ever happened to Sherlock."

"That may well be, but he's still a _**man**_!" The woman's voice had taken on a shrill note, "Imagine what my friends will think. Having someone like _that_ stay under my roof. One that cannot walk, too!"

"I imagine Sherlock would gladly run a mile if he _could_," Mycroft sneered and thought of his little brother who was lying in a hospital bed, alone. _And it was Christmas, after all. So yes_, he would bring him home.


	13. Truths

They had found him by the lake. _Too bad_, Sherlock had thought, mentally fighting off his brother and Jones. _Why did Mycroft have to interfere? Why did he always have to interfere?_ Sherlock's mind had just drifted away when they were turning him onto his back. _Happy New_ _Year_, he thought and remembered Christmas. _What a nightmare_! Mycroft had him use one of those horrid pushchairs from the century before last, and Sherlock hated it. He eventually managed to push or pull himself, but he could not control directions. The evening had been spent in an awkward silence. It was obvious that Mycroft's wife did not want him here. She kept eying him suspiciously in between drinks, and Mycroft was feeling uneasy, too, walking around, tapping his feet, shuffling about, flexing his muscles, rubbing in that his little brother could do none of them. Sherlock had felt _small_. He did not belong here. He ought to be with John, he thought. He wanted to be with John, back at 221B. He wanted to be left in peace. John would not ask stupid questions. He would fuss, of course, but then he was a doctor. He would allow him space, ignore him when he became insufferable. He would treat him like a normal human being. Instead, Sherlock had shrunk into the velvet cushions of the chair and fingered his crystal tumbler. And then Mycroft had spoken. Their daughter was expected for Christmas Day. Katherine was being educated somewhere in Scotland. Sherlock had deleted the details. But the girl was coming home for the holidays. And he, Sherlock, was _not supposed to inconvenience her_. She should enjoy the festive season, and Mycroft would have none of the detective's tantrums. Sherlock had nodded obediently and bitten his lip until it started bleeding. Which was when Mrs. Holmes had tutted and expressed her disapproval at the habit. "A grown man biting his lip! One might mistake you for a child!" He did not care. He listened to Mycroft's list of unacceptable behaviours and agreed to all items. No, he would not smoke. Neither in the house, nor outside. No, he would not conduct experiments. No, he would not shoot up. He didn't bring any drugs. He wasn't planning on having any delivered to the house. He would always wear clothes. He would wash and look respectable. He would only speak if spoken to. He would not insult friends or family. He would not display any homosexual tendencies. He would not sneer. Not speak. Not breathe.

"_Is that all_?" Sherlock had asked when Mycroft stopped to enjoy his whisky. His brother nodded, and the younger man had put his glass on the side table, "May I go to bed?"

He knew how he must have sounded. _Defeated. Weak. Scared_. But he did not care. He was tired of listening, tired of not being welcome, tired of being treated like a dog. He wanted to be alone.

"Your brother has just spoken to you. How dare you walk out on us like this?" _That was _the Wife. Sherlock gave her a sad smile and pointed out that he was hardly walking out on anyone, but rather asking to be taken to his room.

"And we will do when we see fit."

At that point, Mycroft had intervened and agreed to take his brother to his room, which had been followed by a copious lament of the Wife. Sherlock, quite out of character, had apologized and thanked her for having him here against her wish.

"Oh, don't you pretend to have manners! Of course, I don't want you here! Nobody who can afford a rent on their own would want _you_ around!" _John_.

Sherlock felt the blow but decided that it did not matter. _She was right_. Of what use could he be to John? He was a liability, depending on Mycroft to settle the bills. _No more cases. No more chasing cabs or jumping roof-tops_. "**When I said danger – here you are**," he heard himself saying. _That was then_. What could he offer the ex-army doctor now though?

"Ah, that's it then," the Wife spat, "still pining for your boyfriend?"

"_Stop it_," Mycroft hissed.

"_Why should I_? Did _he_ ever stop when you asked him to? Doesn't it feel terrible to know he's in London spending the holidays _without you_? Maybe he'll find himself someone more interesting. You know, you've become a bit of a spoilsport, Sherlock."

"_**Enough**_!"

"_Yes_, I think he might like some comfort, a strong shoulder to cry on. And you know how the stories go. You won't be able to keep up."

Sherlock just stared, thinking _she was right. She was right. She was right_. Mycroft had turned the pushchair and was wheeling him through into the corridor. The Wife was giggling and the detective heard the clank of glasses. _Refilling. Again_.

"You know, I always envied you, Sherlock," she called after them, "You had them all at your feet, and you chose that little army man. _I wonder_, did he pull rank?"

"Don't listen to her, she's drunk," Mycroft whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"_At least the sex is over now_!"

Sherlock had huffed, and Mycroft had apologized, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was completely uncalled for. I have no idea why she said all these things," which was a lie. Of course, Mycroft knew as well as Sherlock did why the Wife had turned on him.

"I'm sorry," the elder Holmes put one arm around the thin waist of the younger and helped him out of the chair and onto the bed. Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly.

"Do you need anything?" At this, the young man shook his head and let himself drop onto the duvet. Mycroft smirked and walked to the door, when Sherlock stopped him to state, "It's not true, what she said. John and I, _we never … we don't_ … we're not a couple."

Mycroft gave his younger brother a sincere look of sadness, "I know."


	14. That Little Army Man

Mycroft had helped him into bed, and worse, had patted his head. Sherlock had hated it. He had hated every word his brother said. _About being family. Belonging_. Sherlock had barely listened. He missed John. He desperately wanted to go back to Baker Street, but his brother would not let him.

"You'll be a burden, Sherlock, you know that," he had said in that patronizing tone of his, and Sherlock had nodded.

"You depend on us," Mycroft had explained, "You can't just go back to Baker Street and pretend nothing's happened." At this, the young detective had gulped.

"You need us to look after you. You can't expect _John_ to do that," Mycroft had stated, and then he had given him his present. It was a modern wheelchair, narrow, black, much more low-key than the ancient one. Sherlock had smiled. _Somehow it was very_ him.

"You'll learn how to use it, and you'll train your muscles. I'm sure you'll manage," Mycroft had declared with authority, and Sherlock had sighed. He did not really have a choice.

"Merry Christmas," for a split second, Sherlock had feared that his brother might kiss him or hug him or something of the sort, but he did not, so he gave a relieved nod and sank into his cushions.

Only when he had heard Mycroft's footfall fade and the dining-room's door thud into its lock did Sherlock push himself up and drag his weight to the chair. Thankfully, it was positioned right next to the bed, so it took him merely a minor struggle to fall into it and make himself familiar with the handling. The chair was made of very light metal, and it responded to the slightest movement. Sherlock smiled. It would allow for smooth entrances and exits, though the young man chiefly had one final exit in mind. He had texted John earlier, wished him a happy Christmas, but he had not had a reply. Out f sight, out of mind, he mused and wheeled himself to the French windows. The gardens looked beautiful in the snow.

_**Maybe he'll find himself someone more interesting.**_

_**You had them all at your feet, and you chose that little army man.**_

_**You had them all at your feet, and you chose that little army man.**_

_**You chose that little army man.**_

_**That little army man.**_

_**Nobody who can afford a rent on their own would want **_**you**_** around.**_

"Stop it," Sherlock hissed at himself and opened the doors. The night air was chilling, and he inhaled before rolling slowly out onto the path. The gardens were not in view from the dining-room. No one would notice him pop outside. No one would expect him to. He was a useless cripple, after all, depending on other people's help. Sherlock sneered at the thought and looked back at the house which was sitting there, dark and quiet, as if watching him. But of course, that was not true. Nobody saw. He made a gentle turn by a big box tree and headed for the lake. As a child, he had loved the lake. He had spent hours sitting there, fishing or catching dragonflies.

When he had reached the spot he was looking for, he bit his lower lip and hesitated. Then he took his mobile from the breast pocket of his jacket and sent another text, merely saying, "Goodnight, John," before he pulled the brakes and slowly stood up. Of course, he could not stand properly, nor walk, but sink to the ground. _Which was the point_. Sherlock sighed and tried to make himself comfortable. The snow was cold, and the ground was rocky. Within minutes, his body was shaking violently. If he could only go to sleep, he would not notice, he thought, and tried to level his breathing and push away all thoughts of _**that little army man. That little army man. That little army man. **__John_.


	15. This Mortal Coil

_**To die, to sleep**_, Sherlock thought, _**no more**__. Hamlet. John. __**And by a sleep to say we end the heartache.**__ The heartache. __**And the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to**_**.** His hands were cold and the stony ground was biting into his shoulder. He was dying. If he hadn't felt so tired, he would have smiled at that. _Finally. __**To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream.**_ Sherlock remembered the Dartmoor inn, late dinners, _very late dinners_, the fire, _their chairs by the fire_, the incredulous look on John's face when they had found the room to be a double. _Dear John_. The detective's breathing was becoming more laboured, and he coughed at the sudden sensation of suffocating. _Nerves_, he told himself. After all, he had been strangled with his scarf dozens of times. _This felt different_. More like a steadily increasing pressure. He _was_ dying. His thoughts flitted back to Wight, too, where John had forced him to go after a minor breakdown. Of course, he had refused to go, but in the end, it had been nice. They had a cottage to themselves, surrounded by England's green and pleasant land and overlooking the sea. They had spent the time walking and cycling, and John had made him eat. He had taught him to cook, too, eventually, and it had been fun. Some days had just passed by without either man leaving the house. Some nights had been spent at the pub. They had even got _very_ drunk one night. John had stopped him falling over, and he had almost, _almost_, kissed him. In his memory, _there was no almost_, he decided smiling. _**For in the sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.**_ His mind was slipping, Sherlock realized and succumbed to the darkness that was claiming him.

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	16. A Parental Text

_**You're up late. You're supposed to be resting! Have you eaten? God, I sound like my mother. Get well, Sherlock. It's seriously boring without you around. I miss you. -John**_


	17. A Great Heart

_He'd be fine_, John told himself and heaved a sigh. Christmas at his sister's was just as he'd imagined it. _Tense. Dull. Boring_. He felt like a stranger, but then, Harry had changed a lot. They weren't close, never had been. The doctor realized that he had begun comparing her to a certain detective. His lips curved up in a sad smile. _Most people would think Sherlock cold and distant. Odd in his ways. Definitely hellish to live with_. _But strangely enough that wasn't the case. Sherlock could be heart-warmingly domestic at times. He was funny, cute even when he tried to be nice around people_. _Sometimes he was just … human. Excessively so, but definitely human. He did have emotions, only did he refuse to show them_. There were some rare moments, though, when John was granted a flicker of what was going on in that lonely heart. _Yes, heart_, John's smile widened. He, _John Watson_, had actually caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great mind.


	18. Found

They found him by the lake. _Too bad_, Sherlock thought, mentally fighting off his brother and Jones. _Why did Mycroft have to interfere? Why did he __always__ have to interfere?_ Sherlock's mind was drifting away when they turned him onto his back. _Happy New_ _Year_, he thought and remembered Christmas. _Last Christmas. The first Christmas. With John_.

"He's not breathing," Mycroft stated and violently pulled a mobile from his gown. Jones was settling into CPR mode.

Mycroft gave instructions, directions, orders. His voice was mechanical, his words clipped and precise. Somewhere at the back of his head Sherlock thought his brother sounded genuinely worried, but somewhere else inside he knew that was not possible. _The Iceman did not worry. He did not even care. But there was someone who did._

"Sir?" Jones tried.

_John_, Sherlock thought and frowned. _Who's John_? _There was no face to that name. But he knew there should be one. Shouldn't there_?

"**Sir**!" Jones' voice grew, and Mycroft looked down at the butler and the still figure that was his little brother. There was a bluish tint to his hands and feet, and the politician sighed. Later, he would not be able to say what it was that brought his thoughts round – Jones declaring that "he's breathing," or Sherlock coughing miserably.


	19. The Milk of Human Kindness

19

"You'll have to do something! Have him sectioned," Gruoch declared and shook her head with authority. Mycroft Holmes felt _old_. And tired. _Of course_, he kept telling himself, _that_ _was how people felt when their younger brothers tried to kill themselves_. A wave of relief washed over him. _Sherlock was not dead_. He was – finally, reluctantly, and under the scrutinizing suicide watch of good old James – slumbering in his bed. _He was alive_, Mycroft smiled, grateful to some unknown greater power. A very small part of him was angry with Sherlock. _The idiot boy could have frozen to death, which had been his intention, of course, but what a waste_! _How typical of Sherlock to act on some whimsical instinct_. _For God's sake, he didn't have to stop being a detective. Legwork, fine. But he wouldn't have left the flat for less than a nine anyway._

"Are you listening at all?" Gruoch's voice was shrill.

"No," Mycroft admitted and poured himself a glass of wine.

"For crying out loud, Mycroft! Think of Katherine! What if she'd arrived yesterday?"

"Well, she didn't."

"That's no reasonable argument."

"Neither is Katherine."

Gruoch huffed indignantly, "You think I'll have our daughter share the house with a lunatic?"

"Sherlock's not a lunatic."

"He's _insane_!"

"He's _not_," Mycroft disagreed, "we've talked about this before. He's depressed, and – for the first time in his life – he doesn't know what to do. He's _helpless_! _Don't you _see?"

"Oh, I see alright. You're getting sentimental."

"No, I'm not."

"You're faint."

"He's my brother."

"_Weak-minded_."

"Not at all. Actually I'm very decided."

"I thought you were more of a man!"

"You should listen to yourself. Groo, just look at us."

"There is no 'us' – there's never been," Gruoch spat and left the room slowly enough for the young eavesdropper to hurry down the corridor and up the stairs.


	20. Lufthansa

20

Katherine sat down on her bed and began thinking hard. _Why did mum hate Uncle Sherlock so much_? _What had he done to her_? The girl shook her head and tried to remember when she had seen him last. That must have been … _yes_, it had been her ninth birthday! Katherine's face lit up. _Uncle Sherlock had been ill_, Daddy had said, and he had been staying with friends in the country. He was very tall and thin, and he looked sick, she remembered that. He had stared at her, she remembered. And Daddy had explained, that that was Uncle Sherlock's job. He stared at people and then he could tell if they were rich or poor, or clever or silly, or if they were lying or telling the truth. _It was wonderful_. Katherine had been curious to hear what he could say about her, but he had not really taken much notice of her. Daddy had said that that was because he was so ill.

And then Uncle Sherlock had told her about the crochet bag! Katherine had made one for school, and Uncle Sherlock just _knew_ that she had cheated! He had one single look at the bag and he _saw_ that it was Mrs. Hunnisett from the post office who had made the bag. Katherine had given her a box of chocolates in return. Chocolates that she had been given as a birthday present. _It was amazing_!

And then they had dissected Lufthansa, the Milvertons' cat. She had been hit by a car, someone said, but Uncle Sherlock would have none of it, and he had stolen the cat. Katherine suppressed a giggle when she remembered her uncle breaking into the neighbours' house. And he had let her help. If he hadn't, she would have told Daddy, so Uncle Sherlock had given her a bowl to put the heart and stomach into, and then he had analyzed them and found that Lufthansa had been poisoned. With something called tarquinium, a very rare plant toxin.

And then mum had walked in on them and had spoiled all the fun, and Uncle Sherlock was not allowed to come back to the house.


	21. John & Carlotta

"So he's forgiven? You're friends again?" Harry asked and John placed the mobile on the side table. He nodded. _They were, weren't they_? _And Sherlock_ was _forgiven. Of course, he was. After what he'd done. Forgiven for his exit. And forgiven for his dramatic return_. The ex-army doctor sighed and thought back to the day when the lanky detective had crashed back into his life. He had given up. _Naturally_. After all, John was only a man. And after more than two years of wishing and hoping, he had given Sherlock up. He'd started going out again. He'd started dating again. And he'd even subscribed to a well-known dating site. Which was where he had met Carlotta, 37, a real stunner who would not have cast him a second glance in real life. Online however, they had become friends. With an unveiled, underlying tone of sadness, she had told him about her family, had joked with him, and John had sympathized. He had shared stories from work with her, memories of Sherlock, humble dreams for the future.

Mycroft had suggested they meet. And frankly, John should have smelled the rat there, but the politician's text had merely read, 'You should meet her in person, John. Talk,' and the doctor had not thought past that.

Their first (and only) date had been a first night at some small company, and John nearly fainted when he saw his date. _Tall, dark, mysterious. Very pale, very slender_, and John couldn't help noticing the woman's hair which was an elegantly tamed mess of auburn curls. Her eyes were blue and piercing, and if she hadn't given him the warmest of smiles, John would have felt reminded of the scrutinizing stare of his former flat share. _There were, of course, differences. The lack of sharp cheekbones for once._ Carlotta's face was much less defined and much more feminine than that of the world's greatest detective had been. And she was wearing a dress. It was black and slinky, long-sleeved, a bit on the bag side at the front (only more attractive), but leaving her milky back completely bare. She held herself perfectly, and she was nice. She had a sensual, raw voice, not unlike Sherlock's but, _no_, John had forced himself to believe, _not like his at all_. So they drank and talked and enjoyed each other's company, and then she took him home. Not in the literal sense, but they shared the cab to Baker Street, and she walked him to the door.

"A bit like the old days," she said and looked the street up and down, and John agreed, "Yeah, first dates and all," at which she laughed.

"Well … thanks for tonight," he said glancing at the cabbie who was watching them with unhidden curiosity and fishing for his keys, when, quite unexpectedly, Carlotta bent forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. John put a hand around her slim frame and she shivered at his touch.

"I'll better be going," she smiled and licked her lips, gently pushing John away who was pressing against her, "the cabbie's waiting – for a fare or for a show, anyway …"

John chuckled and felt her wriggle away when her lower belly brushed his hand. He would have made nothing of it (yet), had Carlotta's breath not hitched.

"Goodnight, John," she hastily stammered.

"_No_!_** Wait**_!" John caught her wrist and added his worst fear, "_You're a guy_!"

"_Problem_?!" was the reply. She sounded almost cocky, John thought. _Well, she _was_, wasn't she_? And she was trying to walk away, so John pulled her back roughly and pushed her against the fence.

"_**Ow**_!"

"What kind of game is this?"

"_JOHN_!" she scowled and kicked at him, at which the doctor kneed the impostor.

"Don't _John_ me," he declared with authority and was about to hit the pretty face when he realized he couldn't. Those big blue eyes watched him in a strange mixture of shock and remorse.

"It's not a game," she whispered almost inaudibly because the cabbie was shouting abuse at John whilst offering rescue to the _lady_.

"_**Shut up**_!" both Carlotta and John shouted back, and when John finally _looked_ at Sherlock, he was laughing, and so was the detective. The cab pulled away, and the two men sat down on the steps in front of 221B.

"You kissed me," John stated, and Sherlock shrugged, "You kissed back."

"So that's it then? You're alive. Just like that," John knew he sounded bemused, and Sherlock knew how deeply hurt his friend was.

"John, I'm … sorry," he said rearranging his dress.

"You'd better be," John replied.


	22. Just Sherlock

And it _was_ true. John wasn't angry with Sherlock. _Not anymore_. Confused, _yes_. Intrigued.

Was he gay then? Bi? Undecided? _And what about Sherlock_?

The kiss had been … _nice actually_, John thought. Except that he had been sure he was kissing a woman. Still, it had felt … right. Except that it had been Sherlock in a dress. _What if it had been just Sherlock_? Hypothetically. There was no such thing as _just Sherlock_. John tried to remember that night. Hadn't his thoughts flashed to the very man when Carlotta's lips brushed his? And would he ever admit it?

John sighed and joined his sister in front of the telly.

"Anything on?"

She shook her head and held out a bowl of crisps. He reluctantly took it and started eating, his thoughts drifting off to the detective. _Having a festive 5-course-dinner. Or refusing it._ The idea made John smile. Yes, Sherlock was sure to give his brother's family a hard time.


End file.
